Germ Free Adolescents
by Northumbrian
Summary: Mary Macdonald has an admirer, but she isn't happy about the fact. Whose fault is that?


**Author's Notes:** Welcome to my first ever Marauders-Era story. The past is a different country, and November 1978 was certainly a very strange place.

Blame for this story must go to BBC4, for their Punk Britannia documentaries from last summer, and in particular, the related documentary on the lead singer of X-Ray Spex, the late Marianne Joan Elliott-Said (aka Poly Styrene). It was (to me at least) a revelation. The lyrics in this story are from:

*¹ Teenage Kicks, by the Undertones,

and of course,

*² Germ Free Adolescents, by X-ray Spex.

**Germ Free Adolescents**

As the opening moments of the Radio One Chart Show blared out from the radio, Mary Macdonald groaned. Using blunt scissors to cut her robes was hard work, and her fingers were aching from the effort. There was another way to alter the robes, a method which would certainly be easier on her sore hands; the only problem was that it would not be easier on her mind.

Carefully considering her options, Mary decided to risk it. Striding over to the door of her bedsit, she made certain that it was locked. After hanging her ripped robes on the hook on the door, she turned to face the room which was had been her sanctuary since she'd left school. It was basic: a wardrobe, a dressing table, a stool, and a single bed with a small set of drawers beside it.

_It_ was in the drawers. Staring down at the innocent looking piece of furniture, she reached forward, and hesitated. It would be good practice, she told herself sternly. After all, if she was unable to use _it_ for such a simple task, she would definitely not be able to use _it_ to bring her life to an end.

Mary's lighter and cigarettes were on top of the drawers. They were lying beneath her hovering hand, between her camera and the bedside lamp. She went for a cigarette first.

With a Players No.6 clamped between her startlingly violet lips, she flicked her lighter, held the flame to the cigarette, and took a long calming drag. Holding the smoke in her lungs for a long time, she slowly exhaled through her nose and quickly leaned into the swirling smoke. Before she had time to reconsider, she pulled open the drawer, plunged her hand inside, and grabbed the thing.

Panting with the effort, Mary lifted her wand from its hiding place. As she watched her hand, she was surprised to discover that it was hardly trembling at all. Holding her wand was not taking as much effort as she expected. A serene calmness surrounded her; the realisation that she could hold it was as comforting and cleansing as a hot bath.

Mary walked back to the door lifted up her robes, and used her wand to carefully cut them. As she held the robes out, her eyes were drawn to the three deep scars on her left wrist. She'd used a knife. Each time she'd tried, she had used a knife, and on all three occasions she had failed. The Cutting Charm she was using would work on flesh. It would be so easy…

No!

She had a plan, she reminded herself, and she would stick with it.

Mary continued to make careful cuts and repairs, concentrating on the job at hand. The radio in the background was simply noise, a distraction. She ignored the DJ as he introduced song after song. The man was pompously prattling away in urbane BBC English as he introduced one bland and boring tune after another. Soon, however, the music pulled her from her task.

'And that was "What a Night", by City Boy,' the DJ announced. 'New into the charts at number thirty-nine. I expect it to go a lot higher. Now, at number thirty-eight, seven places down from last week's number thirty-one, let's hear about some "Teenage Kicks" from the Undertones.'

'_Are teenage dreams so hard to beat?_'*¹

The unmistakeably quavering voice of the lovely Feargal Sharkey rang out from her radio and, for a moment, Mary forgot about the task at hand. The Undertones EP was sitting right next to her record player. She had played it at least once a day since she'd first bought it, three weeks earlier, and she happily sang along with it as she worked. The song ended all too soon, and as the DJ began to praise the next instantly forgettable song, Mary thought about the grim and nasty world she inhabited.

Nothing mattered. It was obvious to Mary that the world was dying and all she could do was dance on its corpse. Two different worlds were going to hell together. It was over a year since she fled that awful world of evil bigots, only to discover that the world she'd left in 1971—the Muggle world—was no better than the world she'd turned her back on. Who even noticed Death Eaters when you had the UDA, the IRA and the INLA killing and bombing innocent people.

The world itself was drained of colour, drained of life. Since she'd rejoined the Muggle world, she had seen a fireman's strike, endured a bread shortage because of the bakers' strike, and listened to irregular reports of the brutal killings of a monster they were calling the Yorkshire Ripper. Racism was everywhere. The solution was simple, there was an answer, and the Pistols knew it; what was needed was anarchy in the UK.

By the time the final bars of the American soul nonsense at number thirty-five were fading, Mary had placed her wand on her dressing table. She sat, and examined herself in the mirror. Her short-cropped, purple-dyed hair stuck out in random spikes, like Sid Vicious being electrocuted. Her face was white, her lips and eyes violet, and her eyebrows were the same colour as her hair.

The black robes looked good, she thought. The slashed and torn hem revealed a lot of leg, but not an indecent amount, not quite. The slash across her midriff was larger than she'd intended, but a couple of strategically placed safety pins had sorted that out, and they had the additional effect of pulling the robes tight under her boobs. Safety pins: simple, effective, and the fashion accessory of choice.

She'd put a few slashes in the right sleeve too, from upper arm to cuff. Her elbow now protruded from the sleeve as she moved. The left sleeve, she'd removed at the shoulder, but she still wore it. It was now a baggy fingerless glove. Held just above the elbow with an elastic band, the no-longer-a-sleeve covered her lower arm, the back of her hand, and her palm. It hid the three deep scars on her wrist.

She picked up the spiked dog collar from her bed and held it against her white neck. Shaking her head, she threw it across the room.

'Oh, bondage, up yours!' she told the mirror, smiling at herself. She added more Brylcreem to her hair and twisted it into even more untidy spikes. And then as if by magic—no, not magic, there would be no more magic, it was merely a coincidence—another of Poly's songs blared from the radio.

'Here's another new entry,' the DJ said. 'This one is from X-Ray Spex.' There was the merest hint of distaste in his voice when he spoke the words. It was as if he hoped that this noisy, dirty, and unwelcome visitor to his bland and moribund home wouldn't be hanging around for long.

'Wanker,' she told the unheeding DJ, giving the radio the V sign.

She had a safety pin stuck in her heart and, like her flatmates, she knew that punk would never die. Thanks to punk, she knew what to do. She would stick up two fingers to the world. As she heard the opening chords, Mary knew instantly that this was her song. This was song she loved and hated, the song which brought it all back, the bad, the good, the sickness, the hurt, the comfort, and the evil that was seeping through the vile and violent world she had left more than a year earlier, and which she would soon leave forever.

As the unmistakeable voice of Poly Styrene shrilled out from the radio, Mary remembered.

_I know you're antiseptic _

_Your deodorant smells nice_

_I'd like to get to know you _

_You're deep frozen like the ice_*²

'Mary,' he called. She ignored him, and hurried along the corridor.

'Mary Macdonald! I'm talking to you.'

She feigned deafness until she turned the corner. The moment she was out of sight, she took to her heels. Sprinting to the next corner, she turned, dashed up a flight of stairs, and trotted towards the Fat Lady and safety. There was no sound of pursuit, so she relaxed, and slowed down. That was a mistake.

'_Petrificus Totalis_,' he said, as he stepped out from behind a tapestry directly ahead of her.

Her arms straightened, and dropped to her sides. Her legs clamped themselves together and her teeth clenched themselves. Completely rigid, she fell backwards onto the ground, unable to make any noise other than a nasal exhalation of fright and unable to move anything other than her eyes. All she could see was the polished wood of the ceiling, but she could hear him as he approached.

'Mary, Mary,' he said mockingly, shaking his head as he strolled slowly towards her. 'How many times must I tell you? You should be honoured that I've retained an interest in you. You will need me, you know. One day soon, when the world changes, my pretty little Mudblood, you will be mine. I will control your mind, I will control your body, and you will do anything I ask. You will do _everything_ I ask.'

His voice was barely more than a whisper. She had rolled her eyes down as low as they would go, straining to see at least part of the corridor as she desperately tried to find him. When he finally moved into the limited range of her vision, she realised that he was enjoying her panic. Moving forwards, he looked down at her and smiled that wide and white-toothed heart-stopping smile of his. He was tall, and dark, and remarkably good looking. And he nauseated her.

'You know,' he said conversationally, 'I don't think that you like me, my sweet little Mudblood Mary.'

He squatted down next to her, she watched helplessly as his hand swept the hair from her cheeks.

'You used to like me,' he added, running his fingers down her jaw. 'You practically threw yourself at me, remember?'

His hand slid around to her neck, and slowly down over her robes.

'You even let me do this,' he whispered, sliding his hands over her robes and fondling her breast.

He was staring into her eyes, drinking in the helplessness he could see in them. His lashes were long and black, and his eyes were the deepest blue. Mary closed her eyes. It was all she could do. She couldn't move, couldn't stop him, but she could prevent him from seeing her fear, and feeding on it.

_She's a germ free adolescent _

_Cleanliness is her obsession _

_Cleans her teeth ten times a day _

_Scrub away, scrub away, scrub away _

_The S.R. way..._*²

They were alone in their dormitory, trying to work on their potions homework. Mary moved closer to her friend.

'Lily,' she whispered.

'I told you, Mary. I'm not interested in him,' said Lily. 'I'm surprised that you are, but if you still fancy James after that stupid "joke" he played, you're welcome to him.'

'James is a complete tosser,' Mary snapped, shuddering at the memory. 'I hate him, and his stupid friend Sirius.' She reached up and touched her face and hair. Despite the fact that it was over a week since James and Sirius had tripped her up during Care of Magical Creatures, causing her to fall face down into the slimy marsh where they had been searching out a Snidget, the memory still burned her brain and churned her stomach.

Mary had always managed to hide her phobia, but her hysterical reaction to the incident meant that everyone now knew about her fear of dirt. James and Sirius had claimed that it was an accident, and Professor Kettleburn had believed them. Lily had initially been too busy calming and cleaning Mary to intervene but, during the first of the three baths Mary had taken, Lily had gone and spoken to the two boys. She refused to tell Mary what she'd said, but an unnaturally cowed James, and a rather more reluctant Sirius, had confessed their guilt to Kettlewell, and meekly accepted the detentions they'd been given.

'You're,' Mary hesitated. 'You're friends with Severus Snape, aren't you?

'Sev?' Lily sounded shocked. 'Do you fancy Sev?'

'No,' snapped Mary. 'I think he's a slimy creep, and anyway, he fancies you.'

'He doesn't, Mary,' Lily shook her head, 'we're friends, that's all. We've been friends for years, since before school. But, if it's not Sev, then… No, not Philottus Mulciber.'

'He's gorgeous,' Mary told Lily.

'He's nasty, and dangerous,' said Lily.

'No he isn't. He's exciting and wild,' said Mary. 'He just needs a bit of guidance, that's all. You'll see.'

'Mary…'

'I know what I'm doing, Lily. He's not evil, he's just misunderstood,' she told her friend confidently. 'He simply needs a little guidance. No one who looks that good could be all bad.'

_You may get to touch her _

_If your gloves are sterilised _

_Rinse your mouth with listerine _

_Blow disinfectant in her eyes_*²

Lying helpless on the floor, Mary fought back her tears. _No one who looks that good could be all bad._ Those words should be written on her grave.

'My, my, Mary,' he said. 'I believe that you're beginning to get a little anxious. I'd best check your heart rate properly. She felt his hand at her neck. He slowly slid it down inside her robes. 'That feels fast, to me, he said. Perhaps a little massage would help.' He groped and fondled. 'If I'm making you uncomfortable, just let me know.'

He squeezed, and Mary felt his fingernails digging into her soft flesh. She whimpered.

'Mary…' he began, but he was interrupted by a gentle tinkling noise. 'That's my alarm,' he said, rapidly withdrawing his hand. 'There's someone coming. We'll continue this another time. In the meantime, here is something to remember me by.'

Mary heard the rustle of paper, and felt something being dropped onto her face.

'Owl droppings and pellets,' he told her. He didn't need to, she could smell the guano, and feel the hard filth-filled pellets in her hair. She wanted to scream, but his spell still held her. She heard him murmur another spell and felt the muck rapidly duplicate itself. Her head was engulfed by a rapidly expanding pile of vomited animal parts and excrement.

Then, suddenly, she could move.

She sat up and screamed.

_She's a germ free adolescent _

_Cleanliness is her obsession..._*²

Mary was still howling uncontrollably when Remus released her into the care of Lily. The filth was everywhere. Pellets were tangled in her hair; the stench filled her nose. She was convinced that, when she'd screamed, she'd even swallowed some of the stuff. She was filthy, inside and out!

'It was Mulciber,' Remus said.

'Did you actually see him?' Lily asked.

'No, but…' Peter began.

'Don't say any more, Peter,' warned Sirius.

'This is more important than our secrets, Padfoot,' James said firmly. 'I'm sorry, Evans. This is our fault, if we hadn't pushed Mary into the swamp…'

'She's the one who encouraged Mulciber,' Sirius protested.

'She finished with him,' said James resolutely. 'No means no, Sirius. Evans has taught me that much, at least. We know that it was Mulciber because we've got a map of this place, Evans. We saw him slinking off along one of the secret passages.'

'I wanted to follow him,' said Sirius.

'But James thought we'd better look after Mary,' said Remus.

'We'll do whatever we can to help,' said James wretchedly. 'Do you think we should tell McGonagall?'

'No,' Mary sobbed. 'No teachers. They'll make it worse.'

'Let's get you cleaned up, Mary,' Lily said. She turned worriedly to the boys, and stared at James Potter. 'And then we can talk. Don't do anything stupid. I know what you four are like.'

'We won't do anything, Evans. Not unless you and Mary want us too,' James promised.

_Her phobia is infection _

_She needs one to survive _

_It's her built-in protection _

_Without fear she'd give up and die_*²

Mary crouched outside the door listening at the keyhole. She'd never been up the stairs leading to the boy's dormitories before and, so far as she knew, neither had Lily.

'How is she, Evans?' James asked.

'I think that you can start calling me Lily, James,' she told him.

James whooped happily. 'Sorry,' he told her. 'I couldn't help it. You're a light in the darkness, Lily. How's Mary?'

'She made me promise not to say anything,' said Lily. 'I don't want to break my promise, but I'm worried for her. I want you all to promise not to say anything to her. Okay?'

'Okay,' four male voices muttered their agreement.

'She's … oh, James … she cut her wrist last night. I'm really worried about her.'

'It's not your fault, Lily,' said James tenderly. 'It's Mulciber, he's got inside her head, hasn't he? So far as we know, he hasn't touched her, and we've been watching. But he can make her have hysterics by simply looking at her.

There was a muffled sob, and Mary wondered if James Potter was actually holding Lily Evans.

'He leaves her notes,' said Lily. She spoke softly, and Mary had to strain her ears to hear her friend betray her confidence. 'He claims to be … doing things to her … and then wiping her memory of it with a spell. He tells her that the notes represent every time he's … done something. She's cracking, James. She's bathing at least twice a day. He's destroying her without actually touching her.'

'He is touching me! He is! I'm not crazy!' she howled from outside the door.

_She's a germ free adolescent _

_Cleanliness is her obsession…*²_

Mary sat at her dressing table and stared at her reflection. The purple-haired punk she saw was almost unrecognisable. She compared her reflection to the pretty little blonde girl in the photograph propped up against the mirror. They were two different people.

She tore the photograph into quarters and dropped the four pieces into the ashtray. After lighting another cigarette, she used the match to set fire to the photograph. As she smoked, she watched the last remnants of Mary Macdonald, the girl who had fled from Hogwarts before finishing her NEWT's, burn to ashes.

Opening the drawer, she pulled out the envelope she had prepared before she'd started work on her school robes. "Read Me!" the envelope said. Mary propped it up against the mirror, in the place occupied only moments ago by the photograph of a girl who was about to die. Magic had sent her crazy. She was better now. She had left it behind, and using magic to finish the job Mulciber had started was the obvious solution. It was the easy way to finally resolve her problems.

When she picked up her wand, her hands did not shake. It was a sign. She sat for a few moments, gathering her thoughts and preparing to cast the spell which would end her life. Finally ready, she lifted the wand to her head.

'_Obliviate_,' she said.

_She's a germ free adolescent _

_Cleanliness is her obsession…*²_

The purple-haired girl blinked. She looked curiously at the stick she was holding to her head, and then carefully placed it on the table. There was an envelope propped against the mirror. She obeyed the order, and opened it.

_You can't remember who you were. Don't worry. Who you were is dead. Now, you are only Mary Contrary, freelance photographer. If you look inside your camera case you'll find a ticket for a gig at the Roundhouse, tonight. Go! And remember: Punk will never die!_

_ps Break the stick._

Mary Contrary did as she'd been instructed. After throwing the broken stick into the waste bin, she picked up her camera and left.

'She's a germ free adolescent, cleanliness is her obsession,_*²_' she sang as she clomped down the stairs to the front door.


End file.
